


Affairs of Power

by boltlightning



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Comfort, F/M, Found Family Feelings, Mentions of alcohol, Post-Game(s), byleth but with feeling, major spoilers for seteth and flayn's backstory!! you've been warned!, seteth and flayn and byleth as a big happy cabbage patch family, so soft and so self-indulgent, this story is so soft you could make a down pillow out of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:56:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: An archbishop is appointed. A king is coronated. A celebration is had.





	1. appointment

**Author's Note:**

> this is self-indulgent as heck and i will not apologize!! please enjoy my kids learning to grow into their roles!!
> 
> an important note: this story contains major spoilers for the entire blue lion route, and also seteth and flayn's entire backstory — if you already know what's up or just don't care, cool, happy reading! if you don't want to be spoiled, please return to me later. i'll be waiting with open arms.

Morning is pale through the windows of the archbishop's solar.

It is odd looking out into the small courtyard and seeing someone besides Rhea. Seteth will catch a glimpse of pale green hair out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks, it is a different face that stares back at him with inquisitive eyes. Perhaps it is because he had spent so,  _ so _ long by Rhea's side, but he will never get used to it, not entirely.

Seteth takes a deep breath. He folds a cloak over his arm, takes a circlet in his hand, and steps out into the morning to greet Flayn and Byleth.

Flayn holds a basket of white lilies, freshly picked from Rhea's private garden. Though they had not the time to tailor proper, traditional archbishop attire for Byleth, Flayn had found her a simple, elegant white gown. It is sleeveless with a high collar. The skirt is pleated in the front, the hem longer in the back — it is humble, it is practical, and it is maneuverable.

Byleth is nothing like Rhea. Why would she dress like her? What did tradition matter when the world is shifting around them? The role of archbishop would no longer be the same, as it had for over a thousand years.

Both women smile at him as he approaches — Flayn unrestrained, Byleth tempered and mild. The warrior is still recovering from the battle in Enbarr, not three weeks in the past, and she is pale with the dull pain of her healing injuries. She had engaged with the strongest of the Empire's army, but the worst of her hurt is a burn on her right side just above her hip, Hubert von Vestra’s last parting gift. There are fresh scars on her arms, and an older one down her cheek from the Battle of Garreg Mach, five years ago. 

The pale light highlights her wounds like a spotlight. Or perhaps Seteth is just looking for signs of her discomfort, a part of his protective nature that he had never been able to turn off.

"Are you well? You look ill," he asks Byleth, not unkindly. Her expression shifts — only slightly, as always — and introduces a new note of uncertainty to her brow, a faint glimmer of hesitation in her eyes.

"I...I am well enough." She toys with a ring on her finger, the lone piece of jewelry on her person. "I cannot delay this appointment any longer."

Seteth hands the circlet to Flayn and unfolds the cloak over his arm. It is more a shawl, one of Rhea's old garments. Dark blue and simple, its interior lined with a golden pattern, it had originally been tailored for more casual wear. But Rhea was very rarely casual, and wore her full regalia in almost every scenario.

Byleth is not Rhea. And this would suit her fine.

With careful, slow movements he reaches around Byleth to secure the garment around her shoulders. She inclines her head to Flayn, who does her best to look as serious as her father and places the circlet on the to-be archbishop's head.

"How do I look?" Byleth pulls her pale hair over one shoulder, long and untamed even with a bath and a strong comb.

"Like an archbishop," Seteth says, and speaks the truth. The colors flatter her, and as she pulls herself to her full height, shoulders back and spine straight, she no longer looks a mercenary. Her grace is that of a seasoned swordfighter, swift and sure, but it is her eyes that give her gravitas. They are green like a forest and just as mysterious, filled with an unknowable depth that still gives Seteth pause. 

He had been so unnerved by Byleth at first, by her blank eyes and cold temperament. She warmed up with her students around her, but it was gradual. Then months passed and his daughter was kidnapped, and Byleth had done everything in her power to bring Flayn back. She fought the Death Knight with her class to rescue her from certain harm. Seteth began to trust her more after that, and after the war began, he found that it was something he did not even think about anymore. To him, it is fact: Byleth is worth his trust. Byleth is worth his loyalty.

Seteth had told her months ago: she is like family to him. She knows his true relationship to Flayn. She had taken his daughter under her wing without hesitation. She had stood by his side even when he did not trust her and she did not trust him, and they had forged a relationship of steel from the crucible of war.

Her eyes are green like a forest, and they glitter in the dappled sunlight of morning. Seteth bows his head.

"The ceremony is not very public," he says. He clears his throat, hoping to rid his voice of some of the soft emotion that lingers. It is true he is fond of Byleth now, against all odds — but this is serious, and he must resume his role as her advisor, not her friend. "It will be in the audience chamber, with the Knights of Seiros and a few key members of the clergy. The eastern church is in a state of disarray, but they have sent a few bishops."

"And the western church?"

Seteth pauses. "They did not fare well in the war, as you might imagine. Prince Dimitri will stand as witness on their behalf, with Ashe Ubert and Mercedes von Martritz. The latter has pledged herself as a cleric to the church."

Delight sparks in Byleth's eyes, and she forgets her pain long enough to draw in a swift breath. "I had figured at least one of my students would be present."

"Does that help or hinder you?"

"It helps. My students always help."

She looks fondly at Flayn, who grins back. But both father and daughter catch the hesitation in Byleth’s eyes, in the quirk of a frown at the corner of her lips.

"What is wrong, Byleth?" Flayn steps to her, gingerly setting down her basket of flowers. Byleth's posture deflates, submitting to the pain her injuries cause her. She flinches and meets the eyes of her companions.

"I...I don't understand why it is me," she says, her voice low. "I didn't know anything of the church when I arrived here six years ago. I wasn't even a knight: I was a mercenary, and I was barely even a professor. I know it is something to do with  _ this _ ," she says, gesturing at her hair and eyes, referring to her transformation in the Sealed Forest. She inhales a shaky breath.

"It should be Rhea here. I know she is not well, and recovering from five years in captivity would be hard on anyone. But she is archbishop, and I am not." Byleth's eyes are wide, but they are not frantic; they are filled with confusion, sorrow, doubt. There is so much she does not know about herself, and Seteth's heart aches to know he cannot provide the answers for her. He does not know himself, and Rhea would not and had never answered him.

As though reading his thoughts, she continues, "There is so much I haven’t learned. I don't know all the prayers and hymns, all the stories of the Saints. I don't know how to  _ lead _ a church. I can fight a war. I can encourage soldiers. But peacetime is different, and I..."

She trails off, her expression lost. It is rare that she expresses herself in so many words. Seteth sighs softly. He himself had thought many of these things in the past, but it was clear now that she was the only one who could succeed Rhea: she holds the soul of the progenitor god within her, and willing or not, Rhea had appointed her as her successor.

"Byleth. Listen." The softness creeps back into his voice, the gentleness a man would offer a cherished sibling. In many ways, Byleth is like that — a sister to him, an aunt to Flayn. Macuil would scoff to find that he had become so close to so many mortals. "You have done so much already. I would like for you and the prince to rest, but I am afraid your work will not be finished for quite some time. I have seen you lead, and inspire, and bring hope."

"You are a very symbol of hope, Professor," Flayn continues, "and you have a special gift of bringing people together. Look at your class — they traveled all that way to reunite with you, do you remember? On the day the Millennium Festival was supposed to occur."

"I remember," she whispers.

"Perhaps you are not suited to be archbishop, but Fódlan is changing. The demands of an archbishop are changing. And," Seteth adds, lowering his voice, "If I am honest? I do not think knowing stories and reciting prayers are skills vital to a good leader. Leave the storytelling to people like Flayn and myself."

Seteth knows the stories of the Saints because, well, he had  _ been _ there, in a way any human clergymen could never be. Briefly, he thinks he sees a flash of suspicion in Byleth's eyes — if anyone had figured out his and Flayn's true identities, it would be her — but it is gone as soon as he spots it.

"Flayn speaks the truth: you are gifted in uniting the people. That we have so many people at Garreg Mach right now, so soon after the war, is a testament to that."

Byleth finds her smile again, and looks to her feet. "Thank you both. I still don't know if I am sure of myself, or that I ever will be. But I know I cannot stray with you two by my side."

"We are always here for you, Your Grace," Seteth says, and means it. Flayn takes her hands in hers and squeezes.

"Speaking of uniting people," Flayn says, teasing in her voice, "Do not think I did not notice this  _ ring _ you wear. It is on the finger that a wedding ring usually rests, is it not?" Her eyes flash with excitement and daring. Byleth, to Seteth's surprise, flushes red with hot embarrassment, but she does not withdraw her hand. "Who gave it to you?"

"I—there is no point in hiding it. Dimitri did, last night. He means to marry me."

That, however, is not a surprise to Seteth, who had seen prince and professor grow intimately close over the span of the war. But Flayn gasps, her hands to her mouth.

"You are to be wed?" Flayn squeals. Her eyes grow wide and round, like saucers of sunlight. "When? Does this make you queen? Can you be queen  _ and  _ archbishop? Oh, it is like so many stories of old! The dashing king, his clever queen, overcoming hardship and falling so in love—"

Her spiel is cut off by Byleth's laugh, a sweet and rare sound. "Flayn, it won’t be soon," she says. "We must figure out what to do with this continent of ours first.  _ Then _ we will wed, and you will be at our wedding. I will make sure of it."

"I would not miss it for anything," Flayn says earnestly. Seteth smiles, faint; he remembers his own wedding briefly, before the memory hurts too much to hold any longer.

"I will look forward to it as well," Seteth murmurs. "There is not enough joy in the world, and I am glad you two found it in each other."

There is one thing left to do before Byleth is appointed archbishop. She kneels, and Flayn tucks a single white lily behind each of her ears — a symbol of majesty and hope. Her silhouette looks like Rhea's now, but the face that smiles at Seteth is Byleth, through and through. He is glad for it.

The ceremony that follows feels like nothing compared to their talk in the courtyard. They say a routine prayer, and Byleth publicly devotes herself to the souls of Fódlan — and it is a devotion that she had already proven, time and time again. The Knights fan out behind her and stand stoic; Seteth and Flayn linger further back, watching with careful eyes. Afterwards, the bishops and representatives kiss her hand before they leave the audience chamber, and she offers a word of allegiance and a bow to each of them. (Seteth notices with pursed lips that Dimitri's kiss lingers longer than the others, but he supposes young love cannot be helped.)

Once the last of the bishops is gone, and the Knights have returned to their duties beyond the audience chamber, Byleth turns to hug Seteth and Flayn, an arm around each of them. It is unexpected, but not unwelcome. She is trembling slightly from the pain of her wounds, but she is warm and strong despite it.

Seteth holds her and Flayn close, and thinks that they will be alright.

But there is work to be done yet. They turn their thoughts to the coronation of the king the following morning.


	2. coronation

Dimitri doesn’t remember much about his father’s coronation.

His grandfather, the king before Lambert, had passed away when Dimitri was young. It was after the plague had claimed his mother, but before his father had remarried — when it was just them, the crown prince and the young heir, the gallant warrior-prince Lambert and his gentle little Mitya. The old nickname, once so endearing, is nostalgic and bittersweet in his mouth.

Lambert had served as regent for years while the king was ill and incoherent, holding on to life desperately with the help of Cornelia and the other mages of Fhirdiad. When he passed, the Kingdom breathed a sigh of relief; the late king’s suffering had ended, and Lambert could wrestle Faerghus back into order in earnest. He had served as regent for so long, many had forgotten he wasn’t already king.

The coronation was in Fhirdiad, and the archbishop at the time had come to the palace to hold the ceremony. Dimitri cannot remember any faces. He remembers that it was summer, and it was hot and humid, and Gustave’s hand had been heavy and comforting on his shoulder. He remembers that his uncle Rufus had not attended. He remembers his father’s crown, nothing more than a polished silver band, catching the sun of high noon as the archbishop placed it on his head. He remembers honey cakes at the festivities afterward, and not much else.

As he stands at the entrance to the cathedral of Garreg Mach, dressed in polished armor, his hands sweating within his gloves, Prince Dimitri finds that he does not know how to handle himself. He knows the ceremony is tradition, nothing more, but he has not felt like a royal in many months. What is a coronation like for a king who had barely been a prince?

Dimitri walks slowly up the main aisle. There is no music, only murmurs and prayers as he passes the pews. How many times had he walked this exact path to pray at the statue of Saint Seiros? How many times had these same faces avoided him out of fear? They have just emerged from a war; is it truly the time for such pomp and circumstance?

Goddess, the walk down the cathedral has never seemed so long before. Dimitri is certain that music would do little to ease the dull aching at the back of his head, caused by a lack of sleep and far too much work in a small period of time. But his footsteps echo, the clunk of his fine armor loud against the stone tiles. If there were any other dominant sound in the cathedral, it would at least remove that creeping feeling at the back of his neck as every eye in the room follows him. Suddenly, he feels foolish in all his regalia — his blue cloak trails behind him, its fur mantle magnificent. He had fashioned it himself out of a Kingdom banner and a wolf’s pelt, worn it to war, and had it cleaned well for this ceremony. Who does he think he is, dressing like the King of Lions himself? He had fought and murdered in this cloak. He had almost abandoned his country with this very fabric across his shoulders.

A sudden chill goes through him, and he pushes those thoughts from his head. Of course he is not Loog — he is a descendant. He is to be  _ a _ king of lions, not  _ the _ King of Lions. He killed in this cloak, but he also won the war in this cloak, he reclaimed Fhirdiad in this cloak, and he sought peace in this cloak. Byleth had reassured him as much. He takes a deep breath and presses on.

Dimitri is still hurt from the last battle, the showdown in Enbarr. The weight of his armor disagrees with the stab wound in his shoulder, and it radiates a quiet, thrumming pain in response. Old wounds on his back flare up in a chorus — they are all reminders, reminders of what had been lost. Though no longer driving him to revenge, there is always a part of Dimitri’s heart that will grieve. It is heavy and weighs him down as he walks. He keeps his footsteps as light as he can manage, his posture carefully held to not betray his weakness. Though it is autumn and cool in the cathedral, he feels the sweat beading at his temples.

_ Father, _ he thinks, before he can stop the thought,  _ am I truly worthy? You should be here with me. _

Dimitri would inherit this crown from his father, just as he had inherited his crest. Lady Patricia — his stepmother — would have been here too, had the massacre never happened. What were her true intentions? Where could she  _ be _ ? Was she alive out there, weeping at the loss of her daughter as her stepson stepped over her corpse to lead her lands? The thought is a stone in Dimitri’s stomach. He had been too young to understand her relationship with Lambert at the time, and supposes that he never will. He inherited so many questions, so many things to ask, and he would never receive the answers.

_ Father, there is so much I need to tell you. There is so much I need to know. You should be here with me. _

And there are so  _ many _ that should be here for this. His father should have grown old, and passed down the crown to his sweet Mitya on his own terms. Uncle Rufus, who had never been fond of him, did not deserve to die in the coup at Cornelia’s hands. Glenn and Rodrigue, dead because of him...Edelgard, and everyone they had to face on the battlefield—

No. He would not think that, not today. Today is for the living.

Beneath his armor, the ring his beloved had given him rests on a chain around his neck, a weight against his breastbone that fills him with strength. Dimitri passes familiar faces, smiling faces: Mercedes beams as she meets his eyes, and Ashe bows his head in reverence. Annette cannot stop herself from waving; Ingrid, by her side, gives Dimitri a knowing smile and a small bow that almost makes him sob. Sylvain winks, his smile easy, his posture relaxed. Felix meets his gaze solemnly, trust and challenge both in his pale eyes.

Dedue simply nods in his direction, pride written in every feature of his stern, scarred face. Gustave is the picture of serene chivalry, and his expression is wistful.

The archbishop waits for him on the dais.

The cathedral is still in ruins, and Saint Seiros’ statue had been destroyed when the monastery was seized five years ago. But the morning light is beautiful as it dapples through the stained windows, still in tact, and illuminates her figure from behind. Byleth is not dressed in Rhea’s regalia. She wears a humble white dress and a dark shawl, affixed loosely around her battle-hardened shoulders. Atop her brow is a plain gold circlet, a white lily at each temple. It is simple attire, but Dimitri still feels his breath hitch when he sees her.

Perhaps it is just because he knows her so well, but Byleth is clearly still smarting from her injuries. He can just see the faint outline of the bandages around her midsection that protect her burns, wounds from Enbarr. The scar on her face is staunch in the light. She stands uncomfortably, favoring one side over the other, but when he meets her gaze she holds him in place, her green eyes shining and filled with love. In her hands, scarred and clever and dainty all at once, she holds the simple silver crown worn by so many kings of Faerghus. One of her hands briefly touches the ring on her left hand — his family’s ring, the one he had given her just a morning ago.

Dimitri feels the hot sting of tears threatening to spill at the corner of his one remaining eye, and sees them in hers as well.

“Kneel, Your Highness,” she requests in her soft voice. The emotion is thick, but she keeps her timbre even. Slowly, he does as he is told, his eye never quite leaving her face. Impulsively, he holds out a hand to ask for hers. She complies, and he tenderly kisses the white ribbon of scar across her knuckles, hard-won from a life of fighting.

Her hands are warm against his lips. Her hands had saved him from so, so many things. And they are the hands that would finally crown him after so much strife.

“Prince Dimitri,” Byleth says, louder, so the whole cathedral can hear. “You have fought for Fódlan. You have lead and won a war against all odds. You have carved your path through adversity, and you have helped to save us all. You are the heir of House Blaiddyd — I crown you knowing full well you will be a king that will do good by Faerghus, and by all of Fódlan.”

Gently, she pushes a stray curl of hair behind his ear. The crown is lighter than Dimitri expected, and as she places it on his head, the metal is cool against his feverish forehead. It is the crown his father had worn, and his father before him. He closes his eyes. 

“You knelt before me as a prince. Rise, Dimitri, as a king.”

She bends to kiss his brow, then steps back. His breath short, his wounds aching, Dimitri pulls himself to his full height, takes her hand in his again, and turns to face the cathedral. “Long live King Dimitri!” Byleth calls, and raises his hand into the air.

With a roar, the crowd echoes it back. As the new archbishop and new king of Faerghus descend from the dais and stride back down the aisle, the people of Fódlan join behind them, hooting and hollering. The serious stoicism of the ceremony is lost; Dimitri finds that he is laughing with them, his cheeks wet with joyful tears. When he turns to look at Byleth, she is wiping at her eyes, her smile bright enough to rival the sunlight.

There would be celebrations tonight. Dimitri hopes that, wherever they are, the souls of his family and friends can feel this pervasive, intense joy just as well as he can.


	3. celebration

Sothis and Jeralt would have loved the celebrations. Byleth holds them in her heart as she navigates the reception hall.

Garreg Mach was still hurting for resources, but they had scrounged together enough food for a feast. There are no elaborate and delicate dishes, like the balls of old, but there is a plethora of hearty, wholesome foods meant to feed an army. Grilled fish and game, garnished stews, fresh breads, and simple pastries with fruit from the last summer harvests line the tables of the dining hall.

Paired with them is the drink, which seems to be the true highlight of the evening. It flows freely — berry wine and honey mead from Faerghus, sour vintages from the Leicester Alliance, ale and beer from Adrestia. The first apples of the season had been pressed into spiced cider that is delightful when served hot. There is a clear liquor from the mountains of Gautier that no one can seem to name, but it burns like sin and warms Byleth to her feet with just a single sip. It is with the influence of alcohol that the feast spills out into the entrance and reception halls, and the party begins in earnest.

The Blade Breaker himself wouldn’t have known where to start. Many of Byleth’s earliest memories, the few she can recall, were grounded in the raucous celebrations that Jeralt’s mercenaries would hold after successful jobs. Her father’s absence is sharp tonight, an edge against her side.

A group of Alliance musicians sets themselves up in the reception hall, and soon the army is pushing aside tables and carrying out chairs to make room for dancing. Byleth’s last experience dancing in this hall had been the awkwardness of a winter ball attended mostly by teenagers, which had only become comfortable and exciting once the students had remembered that it was acceptable to have fun. Compared to that, this feast is an outright riot.

Though it doesn’t take long for Byleth to get pulled onto the dance floor, she can sense the hesitance. Previously, she was a young and popular professor, spun this way and that by students. Now, she is an archbishop, the symbol of the church — there is wariness and thinly-masked fear when someone takes her hands to spin her around, and it does not escape Byleth’s scrutiny. No one wants to be the fool who steps on the archbishop’s feet on her second day of the job.

It does not deter Annette from enthusiastically insisting that she join her and the Blue Lions. Felix digs his heels in and refuses to move from his spot by the wine, but the rest make sure Byleth is enjoying herself. Sylvain, confident and brash in his element, spins her so she bumps directly into Dimitri. Awkwardly, laughing all the while, the two recover and quickly join in the waltz. They get maybe four measures into the song before someone else steals Byleth away, much to her chagrin.

Byleth does not see Dimitri again for a good part of the evening. He is a king now, and she is an archbishop. There are many who wish to speak with them.

As the night grows long, it becomes easier to slip out of the spotlight. Sylvain and Ingrid have engaged in an ill-fated drinking contest; Felix watches over them both out of concern, but his face is flush with drink and he is clearly fighting back his smile. Annette and Mercedes keep Ignatz and Marianne company on the outskirts of the dance floor where they feel most comfortable, and Dedue and Ashe have returned to critiquing the food with visible enthusiasm.

Byleth’s eyes dart from face to face, smiling absently, and she realizes there is finally no one vying for her attention. She is suddenly tired to her bones. She misses her secluded office, the focus of the cardinals’ room, the tranquility of the library. She cannot find her king in the crowd, and she misses her father.

Quietly, she slips from the hall and into the autumn evening. The moonlight is welcome on her skin, and the monastery’s walkways are thankfully silent and empty.

She finds her way to the cemetery to visit Jeralt. Since the army had returned to Garreg Mach after the war, the soldiers had been faithful to their fallen friends. They had buried many who fell during their march south, and honored those who had been lost in the five years when the war was at its worst. Someone had left flowers on Jeralt’s grave recently; it heartens Byleth to know that others still think of her father too, and she gently places one of the lilies from her hair next to the other bouquet.

“I gave your ring away,” she tells him, whispering, “to someone who makes me happy. Thank you for that. I wish you were here.”

Byleth feels like she should say something more, but she had never needed to explain herself to Jeralt. They were an unconventional family unit, but what they had was solid and good. Neither of them were particularly poetic anyway. She smiles at her parents’ names, brushes a fallen leaf off their tombstone, and returns to the world of the living.

The party is still raging. Byleth has been awake since the crack of dawn in the thick of the action, and her head aches from the wine and rings from the loudness of the hall. She takes the long way back to the celebration. For nostalgia’s sake, she passes through the Officers’ Academy and, without thinking, goes to the door of the Blue Lions’ classroom.

It is locked. She is disappointed, but doesn’t know why — Seteth had told her the classrooms were going to be closed. They are slated for renovation, as they had taken a beating in the siege six years ago but hadn’t been cleared out when they reclaimed the monastery. The books had been moved to the library long ago, so there is nothing in them but rotting tables and memories. She rests her head against the door.

_ I am not a professor anymore, _she reminds herself, and it is an odd feeling.

“Pro–Byleth. What are you doing here?” 

Dimitri approaches from the direction of the training grounds, his voice soft. She can see his exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders and the shadows under his eye, but he walks with confidence. He had shed his armor, opting instead for a simple white shirt, high-waisted dark pants, and his emblematic fur cloak. His ring is on a necklace around his neck, and his crown is absent, having been returned to his room for safekeeping. It is certainly not the look of a wealthy and powerful ruler, but it suits this humble king well.

Byleth realizes that for the first time in a long time, they are both unarmed, their respective weapons safely locked in her solar. War brought constant tension and stress, and she had developed a habit of always looking over her shoulder. But they are _ safe _ here, finally, and there is nowhere she feels more comfortable than with him by her side.

“It has been quite the day. I wanted some air,” Byleth answers lightly. She falls quickly and easily out of her role of archbishop, and is glad to finally shed the title for the night. “We keep finding each other outside of parties. Fhirdiad, the winter ball...”

His smile is thin. “Perhaps next time we can coordinate.”

“Perhaps. Strategy does seem to be one of our main skills. Someone ought to put us in charge of something.”

“Come now,” Dimitri chides lightly, “those are dangerous words to say on the day of a coronation. That new king might hear you, or maybe he already has.”

“My apologies, Your Majesty.” Byleth curtsies formally. “I’ve forgotten myself, and come dangerously close to teasing you.”

Dimitri had said that very thing to her a lifetime ago, before the war, before the world had changed. She smiles innocently as he looks away in a futile attempt to hide his fluster. “Using my words against me already, Your Grace? This will be a difficult reign.”

She laughs, her breath steam in the cold evening, and steps towards him. Absently, she smoothes down the front of his cloak. “I will do all I can to make it easier than this, Your Majesty.”

“Please,” he sighs, “I have had enough Your Majesties for one day. And there will only be more in the future.”

“Dimitri. My love, my fool-hearted Dimitri,” Byleth murmurs. The wine has loosened her tongue, though the cold air is slowly chasing away the low drone of alcohol at the back of her head. She removes the other lily from her circlet and tucks it behind his ear. “I’m glad to see you. We have not found a moment these last few days.”

She doesn’t realize she is shivering in the cold until he smiles, bright and true, and warmth flushes over her. Dimitri is still politely hesitant, after all they’ve been through, as he puts his hands on her waist and kisses the top of her head.

“Come. You are cold, and we should sit,” he encourages, and puts an arm around her shoulder. His cloak envelopes them both, and he gently guides her to the bench that looks over the bridge to the cathedral.

They sit close. A man of Faerghus to his core, Dimitri is unbothered by the cold and his blood runs hot. He is like a hearth as she leans against him, her head on his shoulder.

“This still doesn’t feel real,” she says into the still night.

“What doesn’t?”

“This. All of this.” She gestures to the cathedral in front of them, the celebration next to them. “A few weeks ago, we were fighting a war. Now it is over, and they have put us in power.”

“Strange, isn’t it? I’ve been told my whole life I would be king, but to think I am now…” Dimitri shakes his head and chuckles, and Byleth feels the vibration of it deep in his chest. “Yes, you’re right. It still doesn’t feel real.”

Above them, the cathedral stands watch over the monastery. Its spire was broken in the siege, but the vast scope of the building maintains its awe-inspiring presence; it is solid and strong and familiar, even at a distance. The shadow of its impressive silhouette is broken up by the beautiful stained glass windows, glowing golden from the candlelight within.

Byleth breathes in deeply.

“Dimitri,” she begins tentatively, “do you ever feel like you weren’t meant for what you are doing?”

He meets her eyes immediately. Gone is the patient, if weary, contentedness he had worn when they sat down; the look he gives her now is serious and knowing. They had spoken at length about their positions during their march back to the monastery, but much of Dimitri’s life as a crown prince is still a mystery to Byleth. Explaining the intricacies of his upbringing in Fhirdiad, entrenched in the politics of nobles and dignitaries, had been too difficult to explain, and she had seen only glimpses of it in Dimitri’s short time as regent.

His voice is low as he answers, “I won’t lie to you. I do, constantly. My blood is what is supposed to make me a king, but how am I worthy to hold all this power? I am a killer, plain and simple. I was raised by Faerghus, and I am to rule Faerghus, but most of my skills involve putting a blade to a throat. We have been down this road many times,” he adds, with a hint of humor, “but it is a fact that I will never think myself worthy.”

She considers her response in silence. Her conversation with Seteth from the morning of her appointment echoes in her head — how do you assess your own strengths as a leader? Dimitri has the natural charisma of a born royal, the sharp wit of a general, and the fierce loyalty of a soldier. But he carries on his back the immeasurable weight of a lifetime of grief and the pressure of his status, forced upon him since he was young. His hands are stained red with the blood of his misguided justice from those five years of war, and she can see the regret and self-hatred in him clear as the stars in the sky above.

It is something she has helped him with as much as she can, but his demons are his alone. She could not convince him he is worthy of his station anymore than she can tell herself she is worthy of hers.

What does she carry on her shoulders? Uncertainty. Doubt. The legacy of the church, so convoluted and shadowed by history that she does not know where to begin to unravel it. _ Perhaps you are not suited to be archbishop, _ Seteth had said, _ but Fódlan is changing. _The words were comforting at the time, but they are another weight on her mind. Her actions for the next several decades would determine the role of the church Fódlan for a new era of peace, she would hope — but where to start?

It is too much to wrestle with in one night. The cathedral looms over them where they sit by the bridge.

“Byleth,” he says at length, when she cannot find the words to reply. “I have realized only very recently that...it does not matter if you think yourself worthy. People have put their faith in us, in _ you_. There is no one tallying up your good and bad deeds and deciding definitively if you are worthy. The people believe in you, and what makes you worthy is what you do with that faith. 

“And if I am honest?” The prince’s eyes glitter, and he reaches up a hand to cup the curve of her jaw. His hand is warm, a guard against the cool breeze of the evening. “You have a very good record of doing well by people who believe in you. Your strength has pulled me through much, to say nothing of Fódlan itself.”

Byleth feels tears in her eyes, but has trouble placing the emotion causing them. It is not quite joy, but it is not sadness, or stress, or anger — perhaps it is simply that there is a person in this world who cares enough about her to say kind things with such sincerity.

He withdraws his hand from her cheek, and Byleth wishes he wouldn’t. Instead, she rests a hand on his chest and meets his eyes evenly. Though his expression remains still, she can feel his heartbeat quicken.

“Dimitri...thank you,” she whispers.

“Of course. I am glad to have you, my beloved.”

“Fódlan has put their faith in — ah, what did Claude call us? A couple of soft-hearted suckers.”

The king sighs, and wistfully looks into the distance. “He was right.”

“He would be unbearably smug to hear you say that.”

“I know,” he says, with a click of his tongue. “But we’re soft-hearted fools, and all of Fódlan knows it — yet they gave us the keys to the continent’s future. What are we to do with them?”

It strikes Byleth that this is a glimpse into the rest of her life. She is loyal to her duties, to these keys she has been handed, and there is work unfathomable that lies before her. But these moments — quiet council between rulers, away from the public, hearts bare — are what keep her looking to the future. Jeralt’s ring on her beloved’s chest is a symbol that she had chosen to spend the rest of her life with him, entangled through the good and bad, through the absolute and uncertain.

“That’s a problem for another day,” she decides. ”But for now? We should enjoy the night we have. It’s remarkable that this party is supposed to be in our honor, and it’s carried on in our absence.”

He smiles earnestly and offers in their defense, “All that matters is that they have fun. There is precious little fun in Fódlan, I fear.”

“Mm. Let’s make our own.”

She kisses him, fully and firmly, and he melts at her touch. It begins bashfully, with all the hesitance of a young couple new to their feelings, but soon they lean into it. She tastes the honey mead on his tongue, sweet and sharp and hot against the cold air around them. Carefully, he rests a hand on the small of her back, the other at her jaw. His touch is featherlight, almost asking.

For a moment, all that matters is her hand tangled in his hair and the thrum of his heart beneath her.

They part, breathless, and stare at each other in sheer shock. This is so very new for both of them. There had been no time for indulgences, not between the war effort and Dimitri’s responsibilities as regent and Byleth’s duties to the church. The novelty of these feelings, the strange burn of passion in Byleth’s gut and the fire that heats her face, is something else they will have to figure out. 

A sudden grin breaks across Dimitri’s face, and he traces the scar on her cheek with his thumb. Starlight gleams in his eye, and barely illuminates the flush of joy across his face. Byleth leans into his touch and places a hand over his.

“Dimitri, I—”

The door to the reception hall bursts open, and golden light spills out into the courtyard. Dimitri and Byleth are off to the side, barely in the shadows, but the light is blinding after a long conversation under night’s cover. Byleth squints over the fur of his cloak.

She can just pick out Sylvain’s laugh, Felix’s sharp objections, and Ingrid’s chiding as the three friends exit the hall into the bracing autumn night. Sylvain is between the other two, long limbs draped over both their shoulders, his talk brash. “Seiros help me,” he calls clearly, “is that _ King Dimitri _? We were wondering where you went!”

“Goddess,” Dimitri mutters darkly, red to the tips of his ears, and Byleth would have laughed if she were not completely mortified.

“Sorr—wow, Her Grace is here too,” Ingrid says, her apology cut short. Sylvain’s smile is terribly, horribly smug. With all the dignity she can muster, Byleth stands and bows her head to them.

“Sorry for slipping away,” she says diplomatically, which simply makes Sylvain’s smirk grow wider. Dimitri stands more slowly and looms over her shoulder like a shadow.

Ingrid blinks. “You two are—”

“I suppose it would have come out sooner or later,” Dimitri interrupts quickly, his tone tired. He holds Jeralt’s ring on his chain up, and Byleth shows them the Blaiddyd emerald on her finger. 

Ingrid and Felix’s eyes go wide, but Sylvain lets out a single, sharp bark of laughter. “I _ knew _ there was something going on between you two. War councils aren’t romantic, but they sure do a lot for building relationships, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” Felix snaps. Ingrid rolls her eyes, and steps forward to take Byleth’s hand.

“Congratulations, from _ all of us, _” she says pointedly, glaring daggers at her companions. She turns back to Byleth with a genuine smile. Felix crosses his arms over his chest, indignant, but offers a surprisingly authentic, “Yes, congratulations. On everything that’s happened in the last few days.”

“Let us be the first to welcome you as queen-consort _ and _archbishop!” Sylvain offers them a polite bow. His self-satisfied smirk is quickly replaced with a bright enthusiasm, evident in his embarrassed smile. He scratches the back of his neck. “Err, or maybe just archbishop? Are you allowed to be both?”

Byleth can only stare blankly, and Dimitri frowns in response. Neither of them know, as this is a new feat in history — but they will figure it out. Sharp even in his tipsy state, Sylvain clears his throat and finds his cheer again.

“Archbishop and soon-to-be wife, then. Congratulations!” he exclaims again. “Are you going to tell the others? If they haven’t figured it out already, that is.”

Dimitri looks to Byleth, who answers by taking his hand in hers. “There is no use in hiding it from them,” she says mildly. She catches his eye, and a quick look passes between them. He nods shortly and straightens up to his full height.

“But perhaps not...all of Fódlan,” he adds. “Not quite yet. There has been quite enough excitement around the two of us for now, I think.”

“I can imagine,” Ingrid says sympathetically. “We’ll round them up. It’ll be like old times, debriefing in the academy courtyard.”

The three head back into the reception hall, quieter now as the night winds down; Byleth releases a breath she did not realize she was holding. Dimitri squeezes her hand.

“You started to say something, before they made their entrance,” he murmurs, once they are alone again. “What was it?”

Byleth looks to her closest friend, her king, her beloved, and smiles. “I wanted to say that I love you, Dimitri,” she says, and stands on her toes to kiss him.


End file.
